


The Woods Are Lovely (Dark and Deep)

by PoliticallyObsessedScholar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Child Sexual Abuse, Dark Peter Hale, Incest, M/M, Rape, season one AU, threatened and/or actual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 18:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoliticallyObsessedScholar/pseuds/PoliticallyObsessedScholar
Summary: It’s awfully pleasurable to be Peter, less so if you’re not.





	The Woods Are Lovely (Dark and Deep)

**Author's Note:**

> This deals with some dark themes. It’s also got a somewhat open ending - which is atypical for my writing - so if you can’t cope with that please steer clear.

It’s a silken kind of silence. That’s the only way Derek’s been able to describe it since the first time it happened. Knowing he’s in danger, knowing he’s in danger when he should be safe, and not knowing when the threat is going to eventuate - it’s a silken kind of silence. It doesn’t matter if he’s in the middle of a family dinner party, or studying in his room, or out in the preserve - that’s the feeling he gets the instant his instincts alert him to the threat.

Of course, he knows where the threat is coming from. He forgets it sometimes. He forgets it when Peter acts exactly like an uncle should and then remembers the instant Peter stops. He’s not sure exactly when it started. Puberty, maybe? But at some point Peter’s assessing gaze turned hungry. It started to dart from his eyes, to his jaw, and down the line of his body - aching to consume.

And then he did.

He consumed by pushing him down, and whispering that Derek was his property.

He consumed by pulling strings until Paige was empty and dead, then whispering that no one else could have a competing claim.

He consumed by lying comatose for six years, before killing Laura - the only Hale who’d ever frowned at his behaviour around Derek and whispered “I could tell Uncle Peter to stop?”

The problem was, of course, that Derek forgot. It’s what grief does. Don’t speak ill of the dead can so quickly turn into don’t even think ill of the dead. Until the doubt he had before the Fire coalesced with the guilt and grief he had after and he started to lie in bed thinking how perverted he’d been as a teenager to imagine his devoted uncle doing something like that.

It’s all too easy to remember the truth when Uncle Peter shows up at the burned husk of their old house and Stiles doesn’t. When Kate dies and the Argents flee and Peter doesn’t. When Peter falls to the ground weeping for the blood he spilled and Scott believes him but Derek doesn’t.

Afterwards, it’s just Derek standing opposite Peter with a silky silence settling around them.

Inside him, his wolf is hunched to the ground - head down, fur bristling, and tail tucked firmly between its legs. Across from him, Peter’s shed his mask. He’s standing tall and confident, limbs loose and ready, a mocking smile teasing at the corner of his lips.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asks quietly.

Peter tilts his head assessingly, lifts a hand to his mouth, and then starts to deliberately suck Kate’s blood from his claws.

“The same thing I did to Stiles, I suppose,” he says and Derek feels his heart stop. “I’m going to keep you and I’m going to fuck you”

There’s a pause, presumably so that Derek can process this, before then Peter continues -

“You’re my property, after all. Can’t have you forgetting that.”

***

Stiles used to think, before everything, that if he was ever threatened, he would fight. He would kick and scream, and flail and ramble his way to freedom. He didn’t know how exactly but he’d do it, somehow, as a “Stilinski surprise!” 

Sure, he did it at the hospital and in the woods and in a parking garage containg a car with a dead body in the trunk - but he didn’t do it again. Not after he said no, and Peter had shrugged and said “very well then, I had hoped I’d get to do it like this.

Not after Peter had forced him into the trunk next to the dead nurse, then pulled him out again some time after the second time he almost threw up.

Not after Peter had led him, with claws at the back of his neck, into a house as luxurious as Jackson’s and then towards a California king bed covered with black satin sheets.

Especially not after he’d been forced onto the bed, and heard Peter whisper in his ear:

“It’s a curious thing. Werewolves can heal almost anything. We can be burned, we can be dehydrated, or drowned and we’d carry on. Our fingernails could be removed, our skin carved open, or our tongues could be cut out and everything would just - grow back. Not that you’ll find out  what that feels like, since you so convincingly told me not to turn you. But, your father could. If you displeased me. I could hunt him down and lock him up then make you watch as I test it all out. So be a good bitch and do as I say.”

Now he knows that sometimes, sometimes, he won’t fight back at all.

He doesn’t know how long it is after Peter leaves before he returns, smug and victorious, with Derek following meekly behind. It feels like eons. It feels like seconds.

Peter gestures and Derek slinks to the bed, sinking down and closing his eyes with a sigh, before turning his head and looking wearily at where Peter is shucking out of his shirt.

Stiles jerks, involutarily, and Peter turns to tell him to stay.

He stays and discovers that watching someone else get raped without being able to stop it is almost worse than getting raped himself. But not almost in the sense of being salutorian to Lydia Martin’s valedictorian, almost in the sense of actually being a Hogwarts hatstall - come again tomorrow because the outcome might be different.

***

It’s a deliciously vicious kind of thrill, doing what he does. There’s nothing like fucking his golden sister’s perfect son under her nose, knowing that if she ever found out she’d rip out his throat. There’s nothing like twisting up that child’s agile mind until it’s finding reasons on its own to feel guilty and culpable and ashamed. There’s nothing like breaking a spirit so thoroughly as to watch that self-same nephew, now fully grown, not even contemplate resistance.

There’s nothing like taking the Sheriff’s son and turning him into property, knowing that any signs of distress will be excused as still more teenage rebellion. Nothing like silencing that talkative, vibrant, being with a few well placed words. Nothing like taking the boy who’s been a thorn in his side since the moment he woke up and forcing him to feel a kind of pain that’s even worse.

There’s nothing like watching them sit side by side on his bed, waiting for instruction. One broad shouldered and one lithe, one cowed and one brimming with impotent rage, one supernatural and one all too human.

Nothing like bringing them first Laura Hale’s severed head, then footage of him shooting the sheriff in the arm, and then well meaning friends talking about paranoia and trusting that Peter’s changed and Eichen House.

Nothing like branding them and summoning them, and forcing them to fuck him and watch him fuck them.

Nothing like knowing that at any moment it could stop, that one of Stiles’ plots could succeed, that Derek could reach up and rip out his throat, or someone could walk in and get off a lucky shot.

He pauses and looks consideringly at them, beckons Derek to his knees, and watches Stiles’ face flicker with relief followed by shame.

”Don’t fret,” he says as he positions Derek almost exactly like he had that first time he’d crept into his room, “it’s not over yet.”

 


End file.
